


Ishvalan Customs

by claimedbydaryl



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Clothed Sex, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Scar has a possessive kink, Sexual Content, its gonna give me whiplash, look at the difference in those tags like wow, okay but its just like scar being saved by miles u feel me, there is a lot of kissing and snuggling i promise, who even am i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6395125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claimedbydaryl/pseuds/claimedbydaryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his brother dies, and his family perish, Scar wakes up to an Ishvalan man tending to him. A man whose eyes are red but his heart is unfailingly kind, who wants to heal rather than to fight. </p><p>He soon learns that revenge is not a path that reaps just rewards, and maybe this Ishvalan--Miles, he said his name was--is what he truly needed to survive instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ishvalan Customs

Scar awoke with the back of a cool hand pressed to his brow. The swift, practised touch was soon replaced with a soft cloth, cold and wet, causing water rivulets to run over his fever-hot skin.

For the briefest moment in time Scar almost allowed himself to be calm. Soothed by the gentle ministrations of whoever patted the cloth over his sweat-damp face, seated close enough their knee brushed Scar’s overhanging elbow. The lean, smooth fingertips moving over his brow and cheeks and neck were too large to be a woman’s, too quick to be senile, too sparse in occurrence to belong to more than one person.

Under the black wall of closed eyelids Scar was able to discern his whereabouts—under shelter, the space darkened, although there was a presence of light outside. The air was thick with heat, dry with dust—harsh on Scar’s raw throat as he sucked in irregular breaths. There was a hint of oils and spices, that distinct oriental scent of Ishval. A faded stream of sound—voices maybe, a whirr of machinery in the distance and—

His focus shifted from the healing efforts of the unfamiliar man to the sound in an instant.

Scar sat upright in the narrow wrought-iron cot, the sudden action jerky and painful. The bedframe creaked under his movements. His blurred vision took a few moments to clear, whatever peace that had settled within his chest effectively shattered. His keen observations were proved correct—he was in a small earthen room, the furniture basic and rudimentary, the glare of external sunlight sending a spike of pain lancing through his skull.

His people—

His family—

His _brother_ —

Scar bent over at the waist, a wave of nausea rolling through him. He leaned over the side of the bed, heaving, gasping desperately for air to fill his lungs. He could still taste the brittle cloud of rubble following the Alchemist’s devastating assault, the surrounding buildings collapsing under the force of the explosion. He could still feel the flare of white-hot pain that had swept over face, a swath of blood blinding him. And he could still see his brother lunging out in front of him—

There was a tentative touch to his shoulder, a frim press of fingertips to his bare skin that acted as an anchor rather than a comfort. Scar frantically turned to glean a decent look of who it was with him, glimpsing a mirror image of a fellow Ishvalan man.

He was leaner in stature, less width and breadth in the shoulders and waist, but still muscular beneath his simple blue robe. Around the same age, too. The sharp, pale points of his sideburns grazed the line of his cheekbones, hair pulled back to reveal a facial structure angular in appearance—almost refined and striking in comparison to Scar’s broad, rough profile.

“Calm down,” he said, almost an order.

Scar ignored him. He blinked, swaying as he swung his feet over the side of his bed, needing to find his brother. He couldn’t speak, could barely think. His mind was awash with an overpowering red colour, the unnatural current of alchemy still flowing through his veins.

“Calm down,” the man repeated, his grip on Scar tightening.

Fighting the rising swell of panic and twisting coil of sickness in his stomach, Scar tried to stand. He was met with opposition, the hand on his shoulder pushing him onto the thin mattress. Scar frowned, an aggressive growl caught in the back of his throat.

“I said—”

“Let me go,” Scar countered, his tone threatening.

“You’re not fit enough to move,” the Ishvalan’s voice revealed a fragile veil of conciliation.

He wasn’t trying to fight Scar, or force him to do anything he didn’t want to do, but he needed to find his brother. Nothing else mattered. Not even his wellbeing.

“You need to allow your body to recover before you can move just yet,” his red eyes shone with a sympathetic gleam, urging Scar to understand, to comply. “You can’t attempt to find your brother at your own personal risk. It won’t help anyone.”

“But he’s my brother—” The words passed feebly through Scar’s lips, losing traction as he thrust his arm outwards in the first sign of psychical resistance, his resolve faltering. He had realised, with an abject sense of horror, that his right arm—alike in its usual shape and feel and motion—was not his own. His tanned skin was covered in a familiar pattern of black, intertwining tattoos.

Scar’s knees started to tremble, his entire body wavering under the weight of his revelation.

“Did you…” He swallowed the lodge of emotion in his throat, fumbling to find his bearings before near collapsing onto the mattress. “Did you find anyone else with me?”

The rigid set of the Ishvalan’s shoulders eased, abandoning his defensive stance. Although he maintained touch with Scar—a large, warm hand resting on his shoulder, a solid weight. He dipped his head forward, gentleness replacing his previous fortitude.

“There was no one with you,” he admitted quietly. “No one alive.”

Scar closed his eyes with a sort of finality, like he was barely able to accept the fact that his brother was dead—that he’d sacrificed himself for Scar. As a quivering sigh escaped him, both hands—his brother’s and his own—reached up to rub the exhaustion from his eyes.

There was a simmering pit of anger and resentment burning low in his stomach. The longer he dwelled on his brother’s death and his people’s slaughter the more a steady trickle—first an ebb, and then a rush—of rage coursed through his veins, threating to overwhelm him in its intensity. It didn’t bear any form of resemblance to the peace or equality his brother spoke of, instead it was dark and violent and contorted.

Scar’s jaw set in hard click of teeth grinding together, the pang of pain in his chest dissipating as he pushed all traces of human emotion down, away. He decided he was going to fight. He was going to avenge his brother. He was going to punish the people who had wronged his own.

But the Ishvalan halted Scar’s train of thought in one precise application of pressure. “You don’t need to fight them. You don’t need to destroy in order to rebuild. Becoming what the enemy perceives you to be is not the answer.” He spoke with a methodical logic that seemed like the polar opposite of Scar’s unfounded wrath.

Fists clenched in the fabric of his pants, Scar asked the man, “How can you—” He shook his head, unable to coherently finish the question forming in his mind. Reason could not be applied to the forceful Amestris invasion of his country, or the callous murder of an innocent Ishvalan child—the fateful shot that spurred the war into motion.

The Ishvalan pulled his arm back—Scar was struck with a strange sense of loss, a feeling he soon ignored—before speaking. “We will never be able to undo the damage of this war, or replace the people we once lost, but we can work to ensure it never happens again.”

Scar looked sidewards, still fuelled by a deep-rooted resentment for the Amestrian occupation of Ishval, for the untold power Alchemist’s wielded, for the isolation following his family’s death. A conflicted mass of feelings built in his chest, a fog of confusion flooding his mind.

“I don’t… I don’t think that’s an option for me anymore.”

The Ishvalan glanced at him, his expression unreadable and mouth pressed into a thin line. “You need to get some sleep; you’re still too weak to be moving around.” He rose from his seat, now placing both hands on Scar’s shoulders and manoeuvring him back into bed.  “Here, drink this.” Scar accepted the offered drink, his fingers warm against the Ishvalan’s.

The man hovered over him for a moment longer as Scar settled back into bed, too hot to pull the blankets up around him. He ran the cloth over Scar’s forehead again, wiping the gathering beads of sweat from his skin, pushing the lank hair back over his skull.

“Why are you doing this?” Scar asked belatedly, succumbing to the pull of a dreamless sleep.

“Because I don’t believe fighting will ever be able to effectively solve a problem.”

“But this will?” There was an edge to his voice, a hardness.

“I think that maybe it can—or at least I can try.”

Scar allowed the conversation to lapse into silence, his mind abuzz with the Ishvalan’s words but his heart still ablaze with the pain and loss and regret of his brother’s sacrifice. He didn’t know whether to fight or protect. To scream or cry. To protest or stay silent.

“Miles,” the Ishvalan said as Scar balanced on the precipice of sleep. “My name’s Miles.”

He knew his name was Scar from the moment he woke up—he knew there was no return to his prior self. Ishval was his home, but he didn’t feel safe there anymore. He didn’t have a place in this world that was associated with any sense of security or belonging. He was just a name—a face—a blank expanse of nothing.

“Scar,” he said quietly, turning onto his side to avoid the Ishvalan’s—Miles’—gaze. “I’m Scar.”

-

Scar roused in the dim glow of morning to a dull ache spreading over his ribs and a throbbing behind his temples. He turned and stretched his arm outwards—gaze searching over the tattoos to ensure his errant thoughts were true, that his brother was dead. He sighed, clenching his fingers tight. Anger still burned in his stomach, but a plethora of other emotions warred inside him—the loss was still too fresh, too raw.

There was a crackle of wood outside, heat splitting tree limbs and branches alike, emanating with an orange firelight. Scar opened his mouth to call out for the Ishvalan when he felt fingers wrap around his own bicep, turning him onto his back. Miles stared down at him, the corners of his mouth turned upwards into what almost could be considered a reassuring smile. There was a crack in Scar’s hardened exterior—a fissure of weakness that waned under Miles’ welcome attention.

“Hungry?” He prompted.

Scar nodded, using his hands to push himself into an upright sitting position. Absently, Scar felt Miles’ palms slip over his waist, holding him in place as he wavered under the overwhelming surge of nausea.

“We need to change your bandages to stave off the risk of infection,” Miles said, his face tipped dangerously close to Scar’s. After a momentary lapse he spoke again. “Or do you prefer to eat first?”

Scar weighed both effects of the decision—a gnawing in his stomach and the insidious festering of his wounds, and wisely chose to remedy the latter. He nodded his agreement, and Miles whispered his acknowledgment before altering the positon of his hands from Scar’s waist to the swath of bandages stretched over his shoulder. His long, deft fingers quickly worked the bandages loose, unwrapping the bindings in a repeated motion, over Scar’s shoulder and under his arm.

Scar blinked once, twice. He swallowed the lump of emotion lodged in his throat, swiftly distracted from his simmering anger and exhaustion by the nearness of Miles’ presence, and the humid air on his now bare skin.

Miles deposited the bundle of soiled bandages on a nearby wooden stool, leaning close to assess the health of Scar’s wounds. Scar caught the heady scent of burned wood, and something grittier and almost foreign, like gun smoke. Scar inhaled sharply, focusing on the distinct brand of the other Ishvalan’s smell rather than the gentle probing of his fingers at the edges of his wounds.

At one point Miles touched something too raw, just a little too tender, and Scar’s hand acted on instinct. His fingers clutched at the rough fabric of Miles’ robe in a desperate hold, knuckles pressed to the firm flesh beneath, unwilling to let go.

Scar heard a distant murmur, the body beneath his hand swaying a little closer. He didn’t hear the words; barley understood what was being asked. Miles soon abandoned his efforts to console Scar, placing a calloused palm on his chest and waiting for a nod of permission before beginning to rub a healing balm over Scar’s patchwork of injuries.

The larger Ishvalan allowed the tension in his jaw to ease as Miles spread the thick paste over the open wounds, massaging it into his muscles and tendons. The ointment was cool against his overheated skin, plaint beneath Miles’ ministrations. Only when all his wounds were adequately tended to did Scar open his eyes, revealing large black pupils banded in a slim line of red.

He offered a grim smile in return to Miles’ flash of a reassuring grin, the pain slowly dissipating as Miles proceeded to wrap his chest, securing the bandages tight.

“Can you stand?” Miles asked, not showing an intention to move from his position—a few scant of inches of space separating him and Scar.

Scar rose onto his feet, belatedly realising that he still gripped onto Miles’ shoulder. However the Ishvalan made no sign that he was uncomfortable with the shared touch and Scar was grateful for the measure of unspoken trust. He allowed Miles to lead him outside, his hand sliding down to the Ishvalan’s elbow when he lowered to sit on the waiting overturned stone. Miles remained for a beat longer, lingering, before returning his attentions to the simmering pot of stew over the fire.

“How do you like your tea?”

Scar turned to Miles, his gaze flitting over his lean frame, illuminated in the darkened light of dawn against the firelight. He shook his head quickly, trying to dislodge the image from his mind—he barely knew Miles, he’d just lost his brother. He didn’t need to commit to anything else that would leave him alone, bleeding on a destitute carpet of rubble, his memory restricted to no more than a phantom limb.

“Give me whatever you have,” Scar answered.

Miles pulled the metal kettle from where it was nestled in the bank of hot coals, revealing the garish Amestris coat of arms glimmering on the bottom of the utensil. He reached for a ceramic mug, transferring a pinch of dried leaves from a pouch near the bed of rocks before filling it to the brim in a stream of hot water. There was no mention of adding sugar—and no cause to use it.

In Ishvalan culture, whenever two people entered into a courtship, adding sugar to a cup of tea was a method of discerning how much one person loved the other. _The more added sugar that was present in the cup—almost sickening in its sweetness—the more you loved someone_. But if the tea was either bitter or watery in flavour, lacking all saccharine tastes of sugar, there was no claim to a burgeoning affection.

But Scar did pause with the rim of the cup to his lips. His brow furrowed in confusion once he took a cautionary sip, noticing the keen lack of sugar—he recognised a trace of disappointment at the revelation, although he couldn’t quite understand why.

Miles raised his own cup to his mouth, blowing steam over the edge before proceeding to drink. Unlike Scar’s hearty gulp, which almost resulted in drinking half the cup, Miles’ sip barely affected the volume of tea.

Miles stirred in a few more pale vegetable bulbs from the open crate at his side—another stolen Amestrian product—before splitting the stew between two bowls. He passed one to Scar before joining him, seated close to his side. The stew was a worthy substitute of a proper meal, a few scant strips of meat—rabbit maybe—seasoned with various vegetables and herbs, the flavour basic yet still appetising.

“We’ll need to move soon,” Miles said a few moments later, not to fill the empty air with tedious chatter, but to discuss their future plans—and if it included each other. “A week if your injuries allow. The cities are still too dangerous, overrun with the Amestrian soldiers, and the villages will be targeted next. I know a small encampment located on the edges of the desert, although they share a mutual trading agreement with Amestrian military.” He glanced at Scar, scrutinising his reaction.

“Are you asking if I’ll be able to tolerate the presence of a few blue-eyed murderers?” Scar’s tone is as flat and as hard as the arid plains of his country, devoid of all humour.

“Not in those exact words, but yes—something along those lines.”

“My anger isn’t unfounded.”

“But it’s irrational, unpredictable—”

“Dangerous?”

Miles glanced at him sharply, his thin, pointed sideburns framing the angular slope of his jaw. His red eyes were glimmering keenly. “I won’t put other people in harm’s way to assuage one man’s vengeful crusade.”

Scar was quick to object. “I will not become a murderer.”

The Ishvalan’s gaze rested heavily on him, assessing the truth of his words.

“I will not become the same man who killed my brother.” This time it was softer, unsteady. _Hatred only breeds more hatred_ —that was clear to Scar now.

“I believe you.”

Scar startled at the admission, at the unflinching steadfastness of Miles’ statement. He barely knew him—the man with burning eyes and tattooed arm, an X slashed across his face—but he trusted Scar. Miles was a good man, smart and loyal and resourceful—yet he trusted Scar?

After a beats silence, Scar asked honestly, “Did you think I would have ever posed a threat to other people as the State Alchemist had done? To you?”

Miles reassuring smile caused an old hatred to give way in Scar’s chest, allowing a slim tendril of something more—hope? affection?—to foster and grow. Miles didn’t move any closer, remaining crouched by the fire as the cup of tea cooled in Scar’s hands. Now he desperately wished the tea had been sweetened with sugar, that it had been so saccharine he could barely stand the taste of it.

“I thought you had the possibility to become less than a man and more of a monster, but—” Miles grappled for the right words. “I don’t think you ever would’ve hurt someone, at least not intentionally.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” Scar said without reason.

“I think I already knew that.”

-

The Ishvalan refugee camp was bustling with activity, tough fabric and rope stretched between the crumbling ruins of an old city, bordering on the wide expanse of desert. It was ordered chaos—virile young men who built ramshackle huts and latrines, the elderly and the infants were tended to by healers of all ages, old men holding prayer beneath a shrine of candles and religious idols. The Amestrias were a lingering presence, vague and overbearing.

Scar had been part of the camp for over three months now, working as a member of the construction crew. He still grew tense at the sight of the blue-eyed men, the colour stark and bright in his vision, but the anger was easing. Fading with every passing day.

He entertained the thought that maybe Miles had a direct influence on whatever spiritual healing he’d experienced, but he quickly dismissed it. Scar had made a habit of repressing whatever powerful emotion Miles evoked within him.

Of course, Miles had become a political leader of the camp. He was able to effectively communicate with the Amestrian soldiers without being blinded by hatred or fear, benefiting from the situation rather than suffering because of it. He could discern what needed to be improved within the camp, whether it was structural- or resource-wise. If the supply of medicinal herbs need to be restocked or if another sleeping hall needed to be pitched. If the camp treasury should be used to purchase weapons or food.

Scar would sometimes look across the camp in-between his breaks, panting and sweaty, and wondered if Miles fared better than him in the span of time they were apart. The sun burning heavy across his exposed face and hands, hunger and thirst perpetually gnawing at his stomach—and all he wanted to do was be near Miles.

They had arrived together, and so a shared tent was issued to them for housing. It was no more than a few feet wide, two single beds separated by a rickety table and washbasin. There were two footlockers situated at the foot of the bed, a few blankets and unwashed clothes folded inside. Scar had never protested to living in close proximity to Miles—in fact, he’d object to anything rather—and Miles hadn’t either, so they’d lapsed into an easy agreement.

Complicated, an underlying thread of something deeper masked beneath—but still easy.

Scar awoke before dawn, and in the fleeting moments between waking, dressing, and leaving the tent to start the day anew, he was allowed a few seconds to look at the smooth, unstressed lines of Miles’ face. He slept in a thin singlet, sometimes with his pale hair unbound. Scar fought every scrap of self-control he had to stave off from reaching out.

Sometimes he lingered more than what could be considered appropriate, but the entire camp thought of them as a pair rather than separate people already. There were no other pretences to hide beneath.

But Scar always returned before Miles, when the sky was a fiery orange. He usually saw him next at the mess hall, where Scar sat with the members of his construction crew and Miles with the men he worked with, sometimes forgoing their position to sit together. Always at the far end of the long tent, their knees touching beneath the table and the air filled with quick smiles and sparse words.

The pair of them always made the effort to drink a cup of tea once before retiring to bed, mostly relying on each other to make the drink at the campfire’s edge. Miles pretended not to watch as Scar hesitated before his first sip, and Scar always paused whenever someone asked him if he wanted any sugar. But the tea remained bitter, and the surrounding people believed they didn’t need sugar to affirm their feelings.

But when they finally returned to their tent and Scar stripped off his shirt to wash away the grime and dust of the day’s work, Miles perched on the edge of his bed to watch him. Miles stood up to wash a few minutes later, much more quickly than Scar. But right before they slipped beneath the scratchy wool covers of their respective beds, Miles had made a ritual of brushing his hand across Scar’s forehead. Sometimes through his hair or cheek first, but always—because Scar waited all day for this moment—across his scar later.

One night, Scar was absently rubbing the knots at the base of his neck when Miles offered, “Do you want me to fix that for you?”

“How?” Scar asked vaguely, his vision blurring with exhaustion.

Miles nimble hands skated across his shoulders from behind, pushing him to rest on his stomach on the bed. Scar went blindly, transfixed by the feel of Miles’ fingers pressing to his bare skin. He looked up at the smaller Ishvalan standing above him, his mouth agape as Miles smiled before moving to sit behind Scar, his legs bracketing Scar’s hips.

The very air seemed to escape his lungs, his skin suddenly heating with a thousand thoughts running through his head, emotions turbulent within his heart. Miles was so close Scar could feel his breath, could lean back and feel every inch of Miles pressed to him.

But he didn’t, not even as he Miles’ breath was hot and damp over his neck, his hands massaging the taught muscles of Scar’s shoulders. Scar thought he felt a whisper of touch over his cheek, but it was a childish longing—even if he imagined the perfect moment in which Miles would pause, lips hovering near Scar’s.

Miles’ nimble fingers dipped lower, following the sweeping lines of Scar’s back. He paid reverent attention to every sign of tightness that made Scar shift in discomfort, and slowly kneaded the flesh until the pain gave way to a faint stirring of pleasure. Scar may have uttered a low moan of something—relief? desire?—but Miles continued to unerringly smooth the rigid, jagged edges of posture into relaxed, soft corners.

Scar allowed his mind to drift somewhere far and easeful, where he didn’t wield his dead brother’s arm for simple slave labour, where only one bed was occupied in his and Miles’ tent. Miles remained quiet, gifting Scar with a moment of peace as he traced patterns of Alchemist tattoos over his back, lulling him into a state where fear was an abstract concept. Until he had committed the feel of Scar’s warmth and solidity to memory, but remaining close long after Scar had forgotten the twinging ache of the day’s work.

Miles’ fingers stilled against Scar’s skin, causing the latter to turn his head back questionably. Lifting his chin, Miles offered him a brief smile before leaning forward, arms sliding around Scar’s torso. Miles hugged Scar from behind, their bodies pressed firmly together and legs entangled.

“Better?” Miles asked, his eyelids having fluttered to a close.

Scar accidentally bumped Miles’ forehead in an attempt to reply. Scar cursed under his breath, probing Miles to huff a silent laugh, opening his eyes to look at Scar. Their noses collided lightly, breaths mingling wetly, yet they did not make contact.

“I’m better with you,” Scar admitted quietly, mesmerised by the burning red of his companion’s gaze, and the sharp tilt of his chin. Miles’ mixed parentage caused his profile to lengthen, his body leaner than the other Ishvalans Scar had known throughout his life.

“You don’t need me to be better,” Miles rebuffed softly.

“I do.”

“Hush, now.”

Miles waited a few blissful seconds longer before turning to roll off Scar, making for his own bed. But Scar reached out suddenly and caught Miles’ arm, holding him in place. He spoke through his unrelenting gaze, begging him to stay. To be with him.

The corner of his mouth curling, Miles brushed a kiss across Scar’s forehead before joining him in bed. It was a tight fit, aligning two large bodies along one narrow cot, but they made do. Miles head rested on Scar’s outstretched arm, and he curled into the larger Ishvalan after he’d extinguished the warm glow of the lamp and pitched them into complete darkness. Scar’s free arm hooked low over Miles’ back, utilising his bulk to shield him from the outside world, a leg hooked high over Miles’ thigh.

“What are you trying to protect me from?” Miles asked, voice low and teasing.

“Everything I can.”

Miles quieted at Scar’s unexpected response, at the plain honesty of it. He lifted his head—currently cocooned into the dark crook of Scar’s neck—so he could look at Scar levelly. The faint red gleam of his eyes was barely discernible in the dim, and it was sad and pained rather than its usual vibrant shade of colour.

“You won’t lose me.”

Scar felt the flutter of Miles’ eyelashes near his cheek, their breaths mingling they were so close. “And what if I do? What will I do when I having nothing God-given left, after renouncing my name and then the closest thing I will ever have to a surviving family member?” He spoke harshly, but the cruel veneer masked Scar’s fear. His vulnerability. “I will turn to the same blind rage again, fuelled by loss and hatred rather than conviction. My actions will be driven by the things my brother worked against.” Impossibly, he drew Miles even closer into his embrace. “I won’t be able to regain the final piece of myself that you saved.”

Miles was unable to offer a solution, despite his tactful ability to find the most logical outcome. “But… _Scar_ …” He sighed, fingers running along Scar’s collarbone until he found the hard line of his jaw. Miles found Scar’s lips, a thumb resting against the corner of his mouth. “Can’t you see that you’re worth saving?”

“I’m not you. I’m not valuable.”

“What Ishvalan can say they endured such disheartening tragedy to find happiness again? Who can work alongside Amestrians even after once vowing to destroy them?” Miles argued, willing Scar to see his worth—what Miles saw in him. “You’re valuable to our people as a whole because you possess the rare quality than can save us from ruin. You mean something to the entire race of Ishvalans… and you mean even more to me.”

Scar cupped the base of Miles’ skull tenderly, fingertips reaching past his pale hairline. He spoke in a hushed whisper, “I don’t believe you, but I want to. Miles, there’s nothing I want more.”

From there forth, Miles always followed Scar into his bed after brushing his lips—no longer hands, but _lips_ —over his forehead, but never his mouth. Miles had pulled back the second night he and Scar had spent together, and he’d rushed to clarify his actions after Scar’s shattered look of rejection cut deep.

“Scar, I…” A tense muscle flickered had in Miles’ jaw.

“You don’t need to explain it to me,” Scar gritted out, already moving far from Miles’ reach.

Miles lunged forward, hands gripping Scar’s shoulders and pushing him until Scar was forced onto his back, Miles hovering above him. “Do not doubt what I feel for you!”

“You turned away! There was no doubt because your emotions were clear.” Scar hissed.

“I turned away because I… I can’t truly be with you in the way I want to under false pretences. I won’t do that to you, I won’t do anything that could potentially harm you.”

“How is…” Scar swallowed, looking away with a tight expression. “How would _that_ ever harm me.”

“Do you trust me?”

Scar blinked.

“Scar, do you trust me?” Miles persisted.

His answer was sure, steady: “Yes.”

“Then wait for me, please.”

Scar stilled for a few moments, staring at Miles before finally moving. He tried to break his grip, remaining evidently confused and hurt by the night’s events. But Miles’ stopped him, causing Scar’s gaze to find him once again, attuned to the hot brand of Miles’ hands on his bare shoulders.

“I don’t merely desire you, Scar, you mean much more to me than that,” Miles stated, quiet and shaky.

Eyebrows drawn together, Scar’s fingers wrapped around Miles’ forearm, although he ached to feel his stone-grey hair or the curve of his jaw under his palms. “It’s hard to believe that sometimes,” Scar admitted. He had lost his family, his name, and his place in the world—so it was difficult to see the appeal of his shambled body and broken soul anymore.

“Scar?”

“Hmm?”

With a glacial slowness, Miles alternated the place of his hands from Scar’s shoulders to the broad expanse of his chest. He shifted so he was straddling Scar’s waist, resting his solid, comforting weight over his larger companion, the earlier embers of arousal stoked to a steadily building flame. Miles stretched his fingers outwards, running a thumb over Scar’s clavicle, his mouth parted.

“What are you doing?” Scar asked, breathless and meek, the question tinged with confusion. “You said you wouldn’t do this under false pretences.”

“But I need you to know that I want this with you, that I’ll take whatever I can get, but I don’t want to have to lie to you—”

Scar braced his hands on the bed and pushed his body upwards, the sudden movement closing the space between him and Miles until they were fused at central points of blissful contact. Miles arms had slid around Scar’s bulky shoulders, and Scar’s around Miles clothed back, edging dangerously closer to a line that had yet to be crossed.

“Miles—” Scar gritted out, cupping his bedmate’s thigh and urging him closer.

“But—”

“If all I can have is this, then I want it,” he said thickly. “I’ll take whatever you’re able to give me, because you’re the only thing I have left, the only thing I’ll ever need.”

Miles whispered his name once, a hand gripping his hair desperately and holding. Hanging by a tenuous thread of self-control, Scar nosed underneath the line of Miles’ jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive skin of his neck. At the first sign of contact, Miles gasped softly, his hips rolling forward on instinct.

Scar tightened his grip on Miles instinctively, pulling him closer, trailing a path of kisses down his neck. Miles repeated the motion of his hips, pressed firmly to Scar, seeking that white-hot spark of mutual gratification. His mind emptying of all coherent thought, Scar began to match each of Miles’ thrusts with his own, hissing at the newly offered friction.

“Scar,” Miles uttered weakly. “Scar, I—”

“Don’t stop, please, I couldn’t bear it if you left me,” Scar whispered lowly, his hand leaving Miles thigh to slip underneath the hem of his shirt. His touch moved over the hot, burnished skin of Miles’ muscled back.

Miles gasped weakly, quickening the motions of his hips in the darkness of their shared tent, uncaring of whoever heard their shuddering cries and heated groans upon passing by. And he also knew Scar would surely eviscerate whichever unfortunate individual who dared to interrupt them, for Scar’s innate protectiveness of Miles’ honour was a frightening thing.

It was Miles who surrendered first to the magnetic pull of shared contact, roughly pulling at Scar’s hair until his chin tipped backwards, an animalistic groan passing through his lips. The air was heady and honey-thick as their eyes met, pupils dilated and burning with a long-repressed passion, but their desire was undercut by the trust and respect the two men shared. An equal standing of mutual attraction and friendship, and the ultimate faith they held in one another.

Miles was attuned to the build of inexplicable pleasure of his and Scar’s joined thrusts, urged to move _faster, harder_ at the sound of Scar’s heavy panting and fervid moans, at the slight scrape of his fingernails over Miles’ back. He leaned forward unconsciously, catching Scar’s mouth mid-breath, the sensation of weather-chapped lips and wet heat almost overwhelming.

Not even a meagre second of simple chaste contact later, Scar pushed forward, his responding kiss bruising in its intensity. And then he surged ahead, until Miles was sprawled out over the rumpled covers of the thin bed, Scar resting atop him solidly, continuing to grind mercilessly against Miles. Pulling Scar’s mouth down to his, Miles raised his legs to wrap around Scar’s waist, grinning at the sound of Scar’s desperate growl. Scar claimed everything Miles had so willing offered, marking it as his own—swollen lips, red tracks of fingernails, eliciting every plea and cry and gasp imaginable from Miles.

“You don’t know how often I thought of this,” Scar confessed, the words finally escaping the darkest reaches of his mind, “and of you, Miles, always you.”

Miles whimpered pitifully against Scar’s lips, helpless to the unrelenting force of Scar’s affection.

“I wanted them all to see that you were mine, for you to be marked with the imprints of my hands and tender from the previous night’s activities. For you to kiss me whenever we passed each other during the day, to find my hand when seated around the campfire, to flush at the teasing of other’s who had heard how I made you unravel.”

“I won’t last much longer if you persist in speaking like that,” Miles admonished, the wavering threat paper-thin.

In reply, Scar pinned both of Miles’ wrists to the mattress, his free hand trailing down to the waistband of his pale cloth pants. As his fingers first breached that final layer, Miles cried, “Scar, please, _wait_ —”

Scar froze, seized by fear and guilt as if he had committed a crime, unaware of how Miles had broken the grip of his hands to cradle his face. “No, not like that,” Miles was saying, trying to coax some semblance of ease back into Scar, kissing him lightly. “I didn’t mean you had to stop, I just—”

“Do you not want this?” He interrupted.

Miles flinched slightly, the hurt evident in his gaze. “I don’t think I will ever stop wanting you, Scar. I just couldn’t allow this to go any further.” He kissed Scar again, revelling in how the latter pressed into him tentatively. Miles ran his hand over Scar’s tattooed arm soothingly. “Just… trust me when I say I can’t do it just yet, not until I’m sure of what the future will bring.”

“I won’t leave you,” Scar affirmed.

Miles hitched his legs higher around Scar’s waist, coaxing his body into another rhythm, this one slower and more intimate. Miles gently pulled Scar’s face downwards to seal their lips together, whimpering almost inaudibly into the contact. “I know that,” he said, sharing the same air as Scar, unwilling to break his gaze. “But I won’t jeopardise what you and I have for one night.”

“Then what is this?” Scar asked, elbows braced securely on either side of Miles’ head.

“The beginning, hopefully.”

Scar rested his forehead against Miles’, closing his eyes for a moment. He focused on the sound of Miles’ breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, and the rough glide of their pants together.

“I want you inside me, Scar,” Miles whispered quietly in the dim. “I’ve been driven half-mad by the thought of being so close to you. I want to be shielded from everything but the sight of your eyes and heat of your mouth.”

Scar growled, kissing Miles with a single-minded conviction, with a hunger that could never be sated. Miles was the last thing he had the power to protect, and Scar would never willingly allow that final shred of hope to fade, or otherwise disappear. “I would tear the heart out of whoever so much as looked at you,” he snarled, “and whoever dared to lay one fucking finger on what’s mine. I can’t lose you—I _won’t_ —”

“Don’t worry, I’m here, I’m here,” Miles panted softly. He urged Scar’s head into the crook of his neck, arms curling over his back and tanned muscles flexing rhythmically under his open hands. A deep-rooted moan was pulled from Miles’ chest as Scar thrust forward powerfully, grinding his pelvis down harder against Miles and forcing his legs to open wider.

“Don’t leave me, I can’t—”

“Scar, please, _please_ —” Miles held him tighter in his embrace, quivering with raw, base need yet never the more secure in the peace that Scar wouldn’t leave his side. That’d he never be alone. “I need you, baby, I’ll always need you, I—”

Miles cried out, his back arched to press fully into the hard, solid length of Scar’s body. There was no pain or unease, simply the pure feeling of all-consuming pleasure, washing over Miles. He felt a whisper of lips to his neck, Scar unrelenting in the motion of his hips. Miles’ grip on Scar loosened, but he turned his head to find the waiting bow of Scar’s open mouth, melding their lips together wetly.

“Scar,” Miles whispered as his red eyes rose to find Scar’s blazing orbs, “baby, please.”

And then Scar moaned with an animalistic edge, the deep, reverberating sound travelling throughout his entire massive body. His arms trembled with the strain to hold himself above Miles, hips moving in abortive movements as his blinding pleasure ebbed to a steady flow. Scar panted harshly, over-hot with the tea-bitter taste of Miles on his tongue and the feel of his fingers skating over his bare skin, settling him.

Miles kissed his cheek fondly before guiding Scar down onto his side. “C’mere,” he said as the larger Ishvalan collapsed onto the bed, one leg still wedged between Miles’, a hand gripping the latter’s shirt. “It’s okay, baby.”

After placing a placating kiss to Scar’s heaving brow, Miles fetched the damp rap from the washbasin and started to wipe him down. Scar remained silent as Miles tended to him, usually maintaining a link of touch—a hand to his wrist, or a fisted ball of his shirt’s fabric. When they were both clean, Scar tugged Miles back to him roughly, smiling faintly as Miles huffed a laugh at his antics.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Scar asked under his breath.

Miles grinned against Scar’s collarbone, curling into his side. “I don’t think that question heeds an answer.” Acting upon instinct, Scar encircled Miles with his left arm, the other laying across his toned stomach. Scar jolted with surprise as Miles’ fingers sought his, threading theirs together.

“Goodnight, Scar,” Miles hummed contentedly.

Scar only kissed the crown of Miles’ head in reply.

-

The morning awoke with the same lazy restfulness of a cat stretching in the summer rays, a thin cloud of fog masking the camp in the early grey light.

Scar blinked once, twice, before registering that Miles—not a thick blanket—was the cause for the extra source of heat. He sat up on his elbows, unwilling to rouse Miles from his sleep. And this time, he allowed himself to brush a hand over Miles’ cheek before carefully disentangling from his red-eyed companion.

Scar only hesitated for a moment at the threshold of his and Miles’ shared tent.

The day unfolded as all the other days had—the air thickening with heat, the camp filling with the humdrum of conversation and work, tasks mundane but essential. Although when Miles passed Scar on his first morning break, his thin, pale robes fluttering in the brisk breeze, Miles didn’t merely nod his head in his direction with shared camaraderie.

No, instead Miles closed the distance between him and Scar at an unfaltering pace. He stopped when Scar’s gaze dipped to the mouth-shaped mark at the crook of Miles’ neck, tipping his head up with a playful mirth.

Miles gasped when Scar’s hand slid around his lower back and pulled him forward. But Miles’ unresponsive lips soon melded into something more assured and receptive when Scar kissed him, hands resting lightly over his sweat-damp chest. Scar may have growled _mine_ when they pulled apart, and Miles may have lingered in the space it took to separate, but it was clear what they were now—to everyone who saw.

It could’ve almost of been considered perfect as the daylight wore on. Miles did flush at the harmless teasing of his comrades at Scar’s affectionate claim of possession, and now they were able to stand that much closer, to look that much longer. To kiss innocently. To touch reverently.

But perfection was an illusion, one Scar should’ve expected to shatter.

Miles had sat in the cradle of Scar’s outstretched legs around one of the few scattered campfires during the late evening, but he’d excused himself after making Scar his usual tea. Just when the rim of the earthernware mug had reached Scar’s lips, a select Ishvalan leader of their refugee camp had turned to speak to him.

“How does Miles fare with the news?” The elder asked, his eyes squinted and skin creased with years’ worth of hard toil. “I didn’t expect him to take the offer, considering his close partnership with you and the people he’s worked to provide for here.”

“What offer?” Scar asked, his jaw rigid with tension.

The man stilled at Scar’s hard-edged tone, but continued to speak, “Our Amestrian suppliers inquired into recruiting Miles as a member of their military, to possibly act as a neutral diplomat between our people in future skirmishes and negotiations.”

“And what was his answer?”

A beat of unsteady silence. “He accepted. This morning.”

When Miles returned half an hour later, Scar’s place was cold and empty, devoid of his warmth for too long. His tea was abandoned, completely untouched—although Miles didn’t see the mug hidden behind the worn log in his haste to find Scar.

Later, the tent flap fluttered open, the rectangle of fabric falling behind Miles’ tall, lean frame. He halted at the threshold, unwilling to close the space between the two Ishvalans. Scar looked up from his seat on the edge of the mattress, hands interlaced between his knees. He cocked his jaw in a decidedly assertive gesture, in preparation—for what, he didn’t know yet.

“You’re leaving,” Scar accused, the words bitter in his mouth.

Miles reached up to pull the protective sand goggles away from his face in a slow movement, revealing an inner turmoil swirling in his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, unable to articulate the proper response before saying, “I need to do this, Scar. I can’t just ignore this—it’s the only opportunity I’ll ever have to make a difference.”

“Why do you feel like you need to save everyone, Miles?” He asked, wavering. “To what do you owe Amestris? How is dedicating your life to a lost cause going to act as a benefit?”

Miles’ glanced away, his shoulders tense beneath his robe—faded with age and use now, but the fabric still familiar beneath Scar’s hands. “I’m not doing it for me.”

“Then for who? For what?”

He turned to Scar, his posture defiant. “Because I can’t live knowing that if I, or someone like me, hadn’t been there for you when you needed it, that I’d have lost you forever. I’m doing this for you, just for you Scar—” He halted, his jaw held tightly. “Did you even drink the tea I gave you tonight?”

Scar blinked slowly, remembering how he’d stormed to his tent after hearing of Miles’ imminent departure. The cracked ceramic cup Miles had handed him around the campfire was probably still there, sitting behind the gnarled felled tree where he’d left it. The ancient Ishvalan courting custom circulated in his head— _the more sugar, the more you loved someone_ —until he sprinted outside and spotted the pale brown shape of his cup, recognising the chipped rim in the dim.

He picked the mug up, hesitating just once before cautiously sipping the long-cold brew.

“Scar?”

The taste was sickeningly sweet with sugar, unbearably saccharine.

“ _Scar?”_

Miles was unprepared for the ferocity of Scar’s kiss, stumbling under the sheer force. It was too sudden, too demanding—devoid of all his past care and tentativeness. His teeth sunk into Miles’ bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, but he jerked backwards before he any real damage was done.

“Come with me,” Scar growled, dragging Miles’ hand and leading him to their tent. Once they were safely shrouded from prying eyes, Scar severed his connection to Miles and stood stiffly apart from him, his chest heaving with stuttering breaths. He heard Miles seal the tent flap shut before turning to him, a whisper of touch grazing Scar’s shoulder.

“I love you, but I need to do this—”

Scar lowered himself onto his cot, the sound of Miles’ voice fading into nonsensical gibberish. He couldn’t handle this—not knowing Miles loved him, or that he would lose him. That again he’d be powerless to save someone so unfailingly important to him.

His resolve threatened to break, his pulse thudding dully in his ears. “You—” He looked down at his clenched fist, unable to continue looking at the Ishvalan before him—Miles, the man who had been there for him without needing a reason why. Who’d always be there.

“The people of Ishval will always hate Amestrians, and Amestris will feel the same about Ishval,” Miles was saying, as if reciting a practiced speech. “But if we—if I—work to change that perception of our people, and to erase the repercussions of this war, then I think that maybe our future can be someplace worth living.”

“But—” Scar choked out pitifully.

“And I don’t expect to visit Ishval more than once a year—the military would think I was trying to instigate a rebellion if travelled any more than that.” Miles’ voice was firm, but there was an undeniable softness beneath, a hidden vein of vulnerability. “I can’t imagine you leaving Ishval too, and so I’m never going to force you to do something you don’t want to do. But this is my choice, Scar. My decision. I have to leave you, even if there’s nothing I want to do less in this world.”

“Don’t do that,” Scar said through gritted teeth, “don’t say that like you don’t expect to ever see me again.”

“I’m not going to lie to you.”

“You don’t have too.”

Miles looked at him sharply, his expression open and heartbreakingly vulnerable, laid bare. Scar could barely breathe. He hadn’t noticed just how close they were, that barely less than one short stride could close the distance between them.

“What do you mean?” Miles asked quietly.

“What I mean,” Scar said slowly, methodically, rising to his feet. He took one step towards Miles, and then two, close enough to share the same space. “Is that you’re not leaving without me.”

Reaching out, Miles brushed the pad of his thumb across Scar’s cheekbone. It was gentle, meaningful. There was no doubt in the act, no questioning—it was an affirmation of something more. Miles leaned closer, bumping their noses together.

“So you’re coming with me?”

Scar almost smiled in response—but instead, he kissed Miles.

-

Whereas Miles excelled in strategic planning and leadership-based training, Scar was placed into a specialised regime that focused on harnessing the powers of brother’s alchemy, although he would’ve preferred to work alongside infantrymen. But being an Alchemist granted him certain privileges—such as private quarters, which soon also became Miles’ known place of residence.

Initially, the training camp was rife with tension following the arrival of two smart, able-bodied, tactical Ishvalans with eyes the colour of blazing fire. But Miles was a diplomat at heart, and he was staunchly focused on bringing peace and establishing trust between all social and religious classes—so he earnt respect and confidence in his abilities quickly.

Scar was slower to easeful camaraderie, his hateful distrust of blue-eyed soldiers almost causing him to regret his decision to follow Miles. However, the first prejudiced judgements and wayward glances soon fell way to fascination of his culture and intrigue of his tattoos. People marvelled at his strength and valour, despite his stony exterior and unnervingly gravelly voice.

Those who knew Miles could soon recognise his larger shadow, the other Ishvalan who remained silent until he was joined by his red-eyed brother. Who actually smiled and laughed in the cavernous mess hall at the beginning and end of each day, sometimes even dipping his head to kiss Miles’ forehead or resting his hand on the other man’s thigh.

Wary apprehension faded amongst the recruits, until it was replaced with an exasperated shake of the head at Scar and Miles’ last public display of affection. No longer were they labelled as the two Ishvalan refugees or direct threats within the camp, but as the most despicably wholesome couple.

They become key members of their own brigades—a welcome sight on the battlefield, a deep, undisturbed well of strength and intelligence that laid the foundations of a strong team.

And when General Olivier Armstrong first identified the traits of a dependable and logical leader in Miles, he accepted her offer of a place at Fort Briggs only after confirming that Scar would remain at his side too.

-

Fort Briggs was an ungodly fortress of ice and stone. The soldiers there were different—harder, but unerringly loyal, and less prone to petty foolishness—and they didn’t so much as falter at the arrival of two romantically involved Ishvalan men. Olivier Armstrong was equally as stoic, and twice as fearless, but Miles placed his ultimate faith in her command. And Scar trusted Miles’ judgment enough to trust Armstrong, especially following her casual acceptance of Miles’ simple bid to share a room—or even a bunk in the soldier’s barracks—with Scar.

After the tense weeks of when Scar had been separated from Miles in their travel, Scar was eternally grateful for shared private space. The first day at Fort Briggs, surrounded by the dark grey hues of stone and the air cold with snow and sleet, Miles was gently roused to wakefulness by Scar’s mouth moving across his neck, lazily rutting into him from behind. Soon Miles was laid flat on his backside, legs hooked over Scar’s powerful shoulders as he thrust inside him with a litany of restrained grunts and shaky gasps, comforted by the familiar weight and rhythm of Scar’s body.

But their time spent together soon became a luxury, as Scar’s alchemy was scarcely required and he was stationed on border patrol or rampart guard. And Miles’ diplomatic intelligence quickly earned him a demanding place in the General’s staff office. According to Armstrong a man who couldn’t work didn’t deserve to eat, and so Scar and Miles were forced to work different shifts—Scar mainly at night, Miles during the day—and rarely saw one another.

There were small moments in-between were they had a handful of hours alone, when Miles returned at the end of his day and the start of Scar’s. They sometimes shared meals in the mess hall, but brewing tea together was a private affair. Scar usually crossed the threshold of their room, his tongue thickly coated in the sweet swirl of sugared tea, leaving Miles sitting at their lone table—or, sometimes, sprawled naked and sated in the twisted sheets of their bed.

But in the impenetrable darkness of the night, it seemed luck was—finally—in Scar’s favour.

“Scar.”

Scar was shocked out of his reverie by the low timbre of Miles’ voice echoing over the edge of ice-encrusted balcony. He was on guard at the southern ramparts, his thickly-padded body barely grasping onto the weak dredges of heat by the simmering fire.

“What are you doing here?” It was late, the night having heavily fallen over Fort Briggs. Miles usually would’ve been asleep at this point, even if he hadn’t seen Scar in a number of threadbare days. He missed Miles—and Scar knew Miles felt his loss more keenly—but it was Fort Briggs, it was survival.

“Two boys arrived today,” Miles explained, wordlessly fitting between Scar’s arms. He sighed tiredly when Scar enveloped him fully in his embrace, wind-chapped lips skimming over his cheek before fitting against Miles’ neck, breathing against his skin.

“Boys?”

“Amestrians, barely more than children, much less men. State Alchemists, if you can believe.” Miles leaned backwards, eyelids fluttering to an exhausted close, trusting Scar to hold him up. “General Armstrong granted them entry because they knew the girl who practiced alkahestry, which she’s interested in.”

Scar snorted. “I doubt she made that decision lightly.”

“She thinks they’re hiding something, despite her brother’s good word.”

“And what’s your opinion of them?”

Miles turned, nosing at Scar’s cheek. “Before I put them to work scraping icicles off the roof two floors down, the older boy asked what I was hiding for me to be stationed in the north.” He paused, and Scar kissed him chastely in a placating gesture. “I showed them who I was, that I had Ishvalan blood running through my veins.”

Scar tightened his hold on Miles, knowing physical affection soothed his raw nerves, calming him. He made a questioning noise in the back of his throat, probing Miles to continue.

“They didn’t treat me like others did—Scar, _stop_ _it_ ,” Miles chastised when Scar growled dangerously, instinctually acting to protect Miles. “It wasn’t like that, I just meant that they didn’t see me as a victim, looking at me with a mixture of regret and pity. For once, I’m wasn’t a mere orphan of war, I was seen as a soldier too.” He sighed.

“What do you think they’re here for?” Scar asked, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” Miles admitted, “but I think they hold the power to change this country, to finally start making amends for the crimes of their own people.”

“It’s too late for you to be contemplating the fate of Amestris.”

Miles turned to grip the fur collar of Scar’s knee-length coat, offering him a wan smile. “I haven’t been able to sleep alone since we arrived, Scar. I’ve barely seen you in almost a week. I should think it’s quite obvious that I would brave the night to spend just a few minutes with you.”

“You said you came here to put those boys to work,” Scar pointed out, teasing.

“I like to think of it as a seized opportunity.” Miles countered, hands sliding around Scar’s neck, drawing him into a kiss that warmed even the coldest depths of his body. “I have tomorrow morning free, and I convinced Falman to stand guard for the remainder of your shift,” he added, laughing quietly as Scar grinned, pushing him into the nearby wall with a theatrical growl.

The next morning, Miles was awakened by Scar in the same way they’d spent their first morning at Fort Briggs—Scar’s mouth moving wet and indulgent over his neck, pressed flush to Miles’ back.

“How long have you been awake?” Miles murmured, turning his head to catch Scar’s lips in a sleep-hazy greeting. Scar’s bare chest rumbled with an answering hum, a muscled arm pulling Miles further back against him. A gasp filled the empty room as Miles felt Scar’s growing arousal against him, and he slid his hand into Scar’s hair to urge him down for another deeper kiss. Scar started to roll his hips into Miles from behind, the pace slow and intimate.

They separated languidly, and Scar admitted, “I missed this.”

“Missed what exactly?” Miles breath caught, tremoring on the end of the sentence as Scar’s hand slipped down low to Miles’ entrance, fingers deft with the movements.

“Being able to fall asleep with you, and then waking you up like this.”

Miles was prompted to ask Scar what he meant before gasped as he felt Scar slide into him, his mouth a hot brand against his neck. His breathing shallow and skin tingling with the mere sensation of Scar’s entire body pressed to him from behind, Miles found a steady pace that matched Scar’s steady thrusts. Miles’ grip on the ever-growing length of Scar’s white hair tautened, and he moaned softly as Scar’s arm tightened around his waist.

“Scar, baby, please,” Miles whispered, desperate.

“I wanted to do this gentle,” Scar warned, only slightly increasing the tempo of his thrusts, expertly stoking the flames of desire deep within Miles.

“Well, I want to remember _this_ every time I sit down.” Scar almost choked, hopelessly aroused at the gravelly tone of Miles’ honest reply. “The weather forces me to wear high-necked collars and long coats, so I can’t show my neck or arms, I can’t show everyone that I belong to you.”

Scar—true to form—made a noise that seemed part animal, lifting Miles’ leg up to delve deeper into his body, finding a pace that caused Miles to stutter a shaky, wordless gasp. Every joined thrust was lightning, it was the slow simmering of fire, striking through Miles with a heady pleasure.

Miles’ back arched elegantly, his fingers pulled taught in Scar’s shaggy hair, anchoring him. “C’mon, Scar.” Air escaped Mile’s mouth harshly at how Scar’s entire body flexed, pushing infinitely deeper into Miles, strengthening the connection between them. “I want to feel you come inside me, I want it to ache, I want to remember this—”

Scar jerked Miles’ face towards his, claiming his lips in a searing, possessive kiss. He panted roughly, urged by Miles’ earnest pleas for him to move faster, harder. Scar’s free hand moved to lay flat over Mile’s toned abdomen, pulling him further into his embrace, fierce and frantic in his actions.

“Don’t let me go, don’t ever let me go,” Miles gasped, crying out loudly as Scar pushed forward in a punishingly hard movement.

“You know I won’t.”

“Promise?”

Scar bit into Miles’ shoulder, almost driven half-mad in his animalistic need to see Miles’ face, but he wouldn’t forgo this overwhelming heat. He couldn’t bear it for a moment. Not when this was as much time he could spend alone with him for the next coming weeks. Not when his arm would be stiff with exertion, and his neck sore with the effort to kiss Miles at this awkward angle, and he would smile privately at the reason for the aching pain of it.

Miles stuttered another confession against Scar’s lips, one that was still shared through the taste of tea, intimate and reminiscent of their culture. Scar was suddenly seized by a wracking shudder throughout his body, groaning loud and visceral, gripping Miles’ so tightly it would surely leave five-pointed bruises in his euphoric wake. He found Miles’ mouth during the moments his hips jerked forward in abortive movements, spending himself so far within Miles the mere thought of it caused his mind to blank.

He vaguely remembers reaching around to find Miles’ own arousal, half-heartedly stroking him before Miles cried out again, unabashed and visceral. He pushed back into Scar, the slick, hot point of stimulation lengthening his blissful release. Miles whimpered pitifully as Scar kissed him languidly, content to just bask in his presence as his heartbeat slowed, quieting.

“Don’t bathe today,” Scar whispered into Miles’ ear, teeth skating along his sensitive skin.

Miles snorted. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Don’t deny how much you want to do it, to carry around the essence of me. To feel it trickle down your thighs, that anyone else too close will be able to smell me on you, to see _this_.” Scar sucked a dark, passionate bruise just below Miles’ ear.

“It’ll fade in a few days, and I’ll need to shower tonight.”

“Then I’ll fuck you properly, against the wall. I’ll hold you up until your almost bent in half, until I can push so far into you that the only thing you could feel is me.”

Miles made a pleased noise of agreement, turning to nuzzle into the curve of Scar’s neck. He felt the larger Ishvalan’s hand close over his thigh, the other tracing the mouth-shaped brand on his neck. Miles’s fingers splayed over Scar’s chest, lulled by the strong, consistent beat of his heart.

“I love you,” Miles whispered.

Scar didn’t return the sentiment, and he replied in the only way he knew how—by kissing Miles in comfort, knowing he trusted him enough to be happy with his meagre answer.

Later, Miles startled, spluttering a cough on a mouthful of tea at his desk.

Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, asking if he was okay. Miles glanced at the concerned individual at his side and muttered his dismissal before diverting his attention back to his cup. He lifted the spoon out of the liquid to reveal a clump of undissolved sugar. The tea was sickening with the unbearably sweet taste, the hot Ishvalan brew having barely dissolved the mass of sugar.

_The more sugar, the more you loved someone._

Miles smiled to himself, making a note to himself to repay Scar for making his tea this morning.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most obscure ship I've ever had the pleasure (suffering) to captain. buT DAMN LOOK AT THAT I WROTE 10K OF ANIME PINING DURING TWO CAR RIDES TO THE CITY WITH MY PARENTS. I AM GOD.
> 
> and this is the [my command centre](http://diggitydamnsebastianstan.tumblr.com//) on tumblr. hello.


End file.
